


Let It Go

by Gemmiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9.09 coda, Angel Cas, Gen, hint of destiel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 00:39:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemmiel/pseuds/Gemmiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel considers Dean's question: Is he okay with being an angel again? Spoilers for 9.09.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Go

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little coda that came to me after watching "Frozen." The title is from "Frozen" as well.

_I am an angel._

_And you’re... okay with that?_

Castiel, angel of the Lord, stood alone in a meadow. Moments ago, he’d been standing in the midst of a city street, inside a phone booth, speaking to Dean Winchester. When he’d hung up, he’d stood there a moment, looking at the humans bustling around him, and suddenly realized how tired he was of being among them, how terribly exhausting they could be. 

There were billions of them, crawling about on the surface of this planet, and until a few moments ago, he’d been one of them. But now he was an angel again, and he wasn’t at all sure how he felt about that. Nor could he hope to figure it out, not while he was being assaulted with the sound of cars blaring their horns and humans chattering and engines roaring. He needed some time, some peace, to determine his feelings on the matter.

More than anything, he longed for quiet.

The instant he’d made the wish, he’d found himself here, in this broad, empty field. He stood in the welcome silence, and considered Dean’s question. _Was_ he okay with this?

Being human had had its moments. He couldn’t deny that. In only a few months, he'd learned more about humanity than he'd learned from millennia of observation. But he also couldn’t deny he’d missed being an angel. He’d missed his wings, the power to fly anywhere on Earth in a matter of milliseconds. He’d missed the ability to help people, to create, to heal.

He stood there, looking around at the field with his newly angelic perception. To the human he had been, there would have been little to see except yellowing grass, dying back in the face of an oncoming winter, and a pewter-gray sky overhead, filled with thick, heavy clouds. In the distance he could see the skeletal forms of deciduous trees that had lost their leaves, the way the other angels had been stripped of their wings. His human senses would seen only death and emptiness, would have felt only cold and the chilling awareness of oncoming winter.

The angel he was now saw so much more. He could see glimpses of all the humans who had passed through this field over the millennia, could catch hints of their hopes and dreams and desires. He saw hints of every animal that had ever crossed this meadow, from wolves and deer and bison, on down to the tiniest ants and aphids. He could see the potential coiled in every stalk of grass, the tenacious life force that was currently concealed beneath yellowing, dying leaves. He could see life itself, in all its wondrous glory, all its tremendously varied forms.

Metatron had thrown him from Heaven before the angels had fallen, which meant that he was now the only angel on Earth in possession of both grace and wings. He considered that, giving a brief thought to the strategic advantage it might provide him. The grace inside him was not his own, but he was fairly sure that would make little difference. Grace was grace, after all. Ultimately, it all came from God.

He had been created to be a soldier, and yet he found he didn’t give a damn about _strategic advantage_ right now. What mattered to him was that he was once again in possession of the abilities and senses that had always been his. The world was so much more than it had seemed to his human self, so full of beauty, so perfectly designed, so full of possibilities. He was truly himself again.

He thought about his experiences as a human, remembered the sheer impotence of being homeless, hungry, thirsty, exhausted. He remembered his grief and sorrow at being cast from Heaven, and then from the bunker where the Winchesters lived. He recalled his confused rage at Dean for throwing him out without explanation, the hurt and anger that had vied with the deep affection that all the fury and pain in his heart couldn't kill. 

As a human, he’d been a leaf buffeted by the wind, powerless, helpless, frightened. He’d loved being human, but he’d also hated it. He looked around at the dying grass, and his confused emotions surged within him. 

_And you’re okay with that?_

“Yes,” he said in a soft voice. “Yes, damn it. I _am._ ”

Defiantly, he lifted a hand, loosing his powers, and a flower slowly rose from the soil. A black-eyed Susan, a flower that by all rights bloomed in midsummer, not in early winter. But he was an angel, an entity possessed of almost limitless power, a construct of God’s mighty grace, and if he wanted flowers to grow here... then grow they would. 

He motioned with his hand again, and flowers sprang up all around him—wild roses and daisies and dandelions and Queen Anne’s lace and buttercups, wildflowers in all their beautiful, abundant glory. The grass changed too, shifting to the emerald green of summer and rapidly growing up to his knees. 

He turned slowly, looking at the small patch of beauty he’d wrought out of a dying field. It was lovely, he thought. But it wasn’t _enough._

He lifted both hands over his head, letting his powers go entirely, and saplings began to erupt out of the ground all around him—oaks and maples and willows and pines. The ground rumbled as they surged upward, unfurling enormous branches heavily laden with green leaves, and he sent out pulses of his grace, making them grow rapidly. He didn’t stop until the oaks towered above him, a hundred feet tall, their green leaves rustling in the breeze.

The clouds parted, pushed aside by the force of his grace, and sunlight poured down upon the trees, flooding the small patch of summer with warmth. Castiel stood there in the dappled light, staring up into the canopy of leaves far above, letting the sunshine pour down on him like God's grace.

 _Yes,_ he thought. _I am okay with this._


End file.
